


what hath night to do with sleep?

by 3milesup



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Pining, PostWar, Reminiscing, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3milesup/pseuds/3milesup
Summary: Of one night, one desire, three thousand miles and a few more barriers in between.
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	what hath night to do with sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Tumblr songfic prompt and I though I'd share it here as well, if there are some non-tumblr folks around who might like to read it^^  
> The request from my darling Charona was: song _Ruby Lee_ by Bill Withers and David Webster (can be webgott but doesn't have to (; )
> 
> Title from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_

_Staring at shadows on the wall_

_Wish I knew of someone I could call_

_Someone who might understand it all_

He had never thought that, of all people, he would come to miss Joe Liebgott the most. The simple yet so complex, snarky, stubborn illiterate with more fight in him than could fit in his skinny body, with a dark edge to his humour and to his views on life and war, so unlike all David had ever known and believed… Yet, he would trust him with his whole existence anyday, and feel safe.

Sometimes, he felt the urge to call him. Then he realized he had no idea what to say. What about his life could possibly be interesting to a Frisco cabbie? People he’s surrounded by that don’t understand, _cannot_ understand, because they never left their homes, the worst way the war has touched them was the rationing they both lamented about and made it their martyrdom, as though the price for freedom and peace in the world was them drinking half as much coffee as normal, they bought a war bond and made it sound like they singlehandedly took out half of the Wehrmacht… Or those stupid books that are just words and words, heaps of splendid words that don’t mean a thing, and he can’t see the purpose anymore? He didn’t feel like complaining about the hardships of literature studies to a man with two jobs to make ends meet.

He wanted to know how Joe’s life had turned out, how he was coping, but he knew, if he asked, he was going to get showered in deflection and biting sarcasm he really could go without.

Still, he missed Liebgott to deep, dull ache in ribcage. The smirk that ever so seldom turned one shade warmer and formed a true smile to die for. Horseshoe arch of fringe that David sometimes wanted to brush back just to run his fingers through that softness for a moment. Unreadably dark eyes, piercing and spellbinding, always fiery with some inner turmoil.

_He’s so beautiful._

David took a deep, steadying breath, startled by the intensity of his thought more than anything else. He literally felt a tingle running through his body, watering his mouth, tightening the throat, clenching his chest and… _God, Web, breathe, in and out_ … and then further down the thighs to the toes. He squeezed his eyes. Cold, pale marble beauty, incandescent flame within, it was all he could see, all he could think of and yearn for… He rolled over and embraced the pillow.

_Lieb… If only I knew you are doing fine, that you sleep at nights and look forward to each new day, that you have plenty of reasons to laugh and someone whose heart swells at the sight…_

_That you haven’t lost the last broken remnants of innocence that day._

Shadows travelling down his walls announced the break of dawn and he felt sick at the thought of lectures, musty smell and suffocating silence of the library, with not a soul to talk to about it, to help him figure out how he could go from loving something with utmost devotion all his life to resenting it, and what to do with it now.

_Maybe he would listen, even just for a while…_

One thing he knew for a fact, however hard their monotonous professor would try to engage him in a discourse analysis, all he was going to think of this whole cursed day was the luscious curve of red lips made to be kissed numb and his desperate mantra – the Northern California dialing code.

_Someone’s lying with me in my bed_

_Some stranger who don’t understand my head_

_Wish it was you lying here instead_

He had never thought that, of all people, he would come to miss David Webster the most. The pretentious know-it-all, always wide-eyed and agape like a child in wonder, _Christ_ , how Joe itched to punch that stupid mouth half of the time – the other half, when he wasn’t itching to shut it in another way… He’d never let the fleeting thought take a concrete shape: that of a soft touch, a breathless gasp, speechless awe in those large, deep, blue, ocean-like eyes.

Never until now.

He groped in the drawer of the nightstand for the smokes and a smudged saucer that had been abducted from its fellow dishes to keep Joe company in forlorn hours of darkness. What with driving the cab in the morning and till late night and working in the barber shop in between, he should have used the few free hours to get some rest, but he knew he wouldn’t fall asleep.

Not with all the dirty pictures that his mind, in its lovesickness, decided to paint him. They mostly involved certain parted lips quivering with pleasure, strong arms wrapped around Joe keeping him grounded, connected… He ran his palm over the front of his boxers, shivered, biting at the cigarette filter, and grabbed a handful of bedsheet, instead. He didn’t really want to come, which was highly unusual. His only reasons for sex were frustration and need for release. This, whatever it was, felt different, and he wanted that spine-tingling tension to last.

He took a deep draw and exhaled with a sound close to a quiet moan. Silhouette underneath the blanket shifted by his side. Poor thing was used to sleeping in the smoke-heavy air, not that she had much choice, after all…

Absorbed in his fantasies, he forgot to flick the cigarette. Ashes dropped on the bedding; he brushed them off, cursing under his breath, and glared at the dark smears. Some good old bitching heading his way, come morning…

Suddenly, it sadly occurred to him he would never know what Webster might have to say on smoking in bed. He was quite sure it would be worth an exasperated eyeroll, a half-hearted “ _Jesus, Web, really_ …” and an ostentatious tasty drag (blowing smoke in his face before pressing their mouths together, because damn, they would be at it every night, Joe was sure of that as well). Something was also telling him David wouldn’t further whine about it or try to get him to ditch it, and maybe, in return, Joe would do it less often. Just cause. Web would deserve that much for not being a dick.

He caught himself smiling.

He was fond of her in a way, yes. Yes, she annoyed him. But it wasn’t that kind of fond annoyance he only felt around Webster.

It _was_ a special bond - despite the rift between them, deepened by the month in that freezing hell, which made all their contrasts stand out even more. Still, for better or worse, Web was there: under Sobel’s reign of terror, all the way from England to Holland.

He was at Landsberg. He saw it all, he saw Joe Liebgott fall to pieces.

Joe didn’t remember much detail from that day, it was all one hallucinatory blur he refused to believe was real at the time, though the knot in his guts and reek burning in his nose long after he’d left that nightmare of a place were very much proving him wrong… But one thing he could clearly recall were those unreal eyes watching him with genuine pain that surprisingly didn’t irk him up, didn’t feel like pity or concern.

He held that gaze for a few moments, a part of him wanted to reach out and meet him halfway, but he didn’t know how, couldn’t find a single word that would have any weight, and Webster just turned away.

He stubbed the cigarette butt out on enamel saucer and lit a new one.

David was **there** , saw the worst of him. And he never reported, never asked more specifically about that shady order, never brought it up again. Although he disagreed, because _of course_ he had to disagree, Joe felt that he understood, deep down. He’d heard about Webster holding the German baker at gunpoint – on a better day the image would have made him chuckle. So even he had a hard edge, underneath all those polished looks and speech and manners; he was however fighting a war, and they were on the same side: Web on his high horse, Liebgott in the dust and mud, but still, on the same side of hatred.

Now, he wished they were on the same side of love, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for stopping by! <3  
> I'm @3milesup on tumblr, too


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